


Escape

by Beleriandings



Series: Aredhel/Celegorm AU [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aredhel and Maeglin are living in Himlad with Celegorm, Curufin and Celebrimbor, but during the Dagor Bragollach, they must all flee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape

“Have we lost the pursuit?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Let us call a halt.”

As his brother held up his hand and signalled the straggling, stumbling, and all too small group of survivors that followed them to come to a halt, Tyelkormo turned to look back. The fortress that they had fled could not be seen, blocked by the leafless trees of the marches of Doriath in winter. The bare branches stretched upwards like ghostly fingers, harsh black silhouettes against the flat grey-white sky. Even the clouds themselves were veiled by the pall of thick fumes that issued from the north, and seemed to hang low over all the land. But above the treetops he could make out a plume of black smoke reaching up into the sky, the unmistakable sign of the great burning they had left behind. The orcs, he thought, that had flooded over the lands of Himlad had probably killed many of their own, in their rush to take and burn the fortress. But it seemed not to matter to them, and more always streamed out of the north, even as the brothers spent the lives of their people in the futile defence, under that unyielding iron-grey sky.

He walked amongst them as if in a dream, mentally tallying up the numbers that had made it out as their defences failed at the last. Too few, and there were many among them that were dying, holding each other up and bandaging burns and sword-slashes with strips of torn clothing. Some of the faces, grey and frightened or burning with fatalistic rage, he recognised. Some were horribly marred, beyond recognition. He set his own face into a determined frown, looking back towards where Irissë knelt. She was talking in a hurried whisper to Maeglin, cupping his chin in one hand and clasping her bow grimly with the other. Huan stood beside them, as if on guard. As Tyelkormo watched, she looked up to meet his eye, worry clouding her gaze even as she attempted an encouraging smile. For a moment, he was selfishly glad she was here, and then immediately felt guilty. She should be safe with her brother, he knew, although he also knew she would not take kindly to that suggestion, particularly coming from him. He felt himself smile slightly, despite everything, the feeling almost unfamiliar. Just as he was about to go over to her, his thoughts were interrupted by his nephew’s voice beside him.

“Few made it out alive, but more are coming all the time. Do we risk tarrying here?”

He turned to face Tyelperinquar, considering him. His cheeks were streaked with soot, and he had a shallow cut across the bridge of his nose on which the blood was beginning to clot, but otherwise appeared unharmed. Apprehension crowded across his face, which was pale and pinched below the dirt and blood.

“How is our supply of weapons?”

Tyelperinquar grimaced. “Not good. Should we be attacked, we have very little with which to defend ourselves.”

He sighed, glancing up at the sky. “Then our best hope is to continue moving, I suppose.”

“That was also my conclusion.” Curufinwë’s voice came from behind them, and he turned to see his brother approaching with Maeglin, Irissë and Huan. “Himlad is overrun. Those few who escaped are either with us now, or can catch us up, if they are able. We cannot stay here longer. Night is coming, and it is only a matter of time before the orcs find us again.”

“Can we – could we not try to find safety in Doriath?” Maeglin asked tentatively. He placed his hand on the hilt of the sword buckled at his hip. “King Thingol would recognise Anguirel. He would know that we are not servants of the enemy, at least.”

“Maybe so, but I don’t know that that would help matters” said Irissë gently, slipping one hand into Maeglin’s and the other into Tyelkormo’s, seemingly unconsciously. He gave her hand a squeeze, both giving comfort and receiving it.

“Irissë is correct” answered Curufinwë. “An association with Eöl will not endear us to him. But in all probability we would die by the hands of the marchwardens before we could even announce our names.” His voice was bitter. “There is no safety to be found in Doriath. We would merely be slain by grey-feathered arrows instead of black ones.”

“Perhaps Maitimo and Macalaurë’s forces - ” Tyelkormo ventured.

“We cannot assume that our brothers are alive, or that they can come to our aid” Curufinwë interrupted. “The very fact that the enemy breached the pass of Aglon to even reach Himlad means that either Himring has fallen, or that Nelyo is still fighting in the east. Let us hope it is the latter.”

His voice had sounded flat and pragmatic, but Tyelkormo knew him well enough to sense the fear behind the words, a minute trembling in his voice, virtually undetectable. He was about to reply when his brother cried out. “Tyelpe, get down!”  Then Curufinwë was pulling Tyelperinquar to the ground, just as an arrow whistled through the air where he had been standing moments before, burying itself in the trunk of a tree behind. Tyelkormo pulled it out with difficulty, inspecting it. It was fletched in black, the head crudely cast from some dark, rough metal. He threw it to the ground. “Orcs” he spat. “They’ve found us.”

Huan was growling low in his throat, his hackles rising as he placed himself squarely at Tyelkormo’s side. He stared around him, craning to try to see over the nearest ridge, to no avail. He cast around for Irissë, and for a moment their eyes locked, her face set with determination and worry. Then she was speaking to Maeglin, turning away, even as a flood of black figures began to pour from over the ridge, trapping them under the eves of the forest. Irissë fired an arrow, and it hit its mark, one of the leaders of the charge falling mid-stride. But the others simply streamed over the body, trampling it into the muddy ground with black hobnailed boots. Tyelkormo drew his sword and started running, forward into the dark wave of attackers, a wordless cry escaping his mouth as sudden fury flooded through him, Huan at his heels. He met the onslaught hacking with his sword, until he felt it connect with flesh and heard the ragged howl of the dying orc, like metal grating against metal. Huan was fighting another, his muzzle already stained black with the creature’s blood. Tyelkormo fell into the all-too-familiar rhythm of battle, his sword arm swinging in broad arcs as he slashed at several opponents at once. He darted glances around whenever he could, trying to see what had become of his brother, of Maeglin and Tyelperinquar. Of Irissë. But they were lost in the wave of the attack, beyond his sight. The survivors he could see were fighting, falling… he was suddenly seized by fear. There were too few of them left, they would all die here… he gritted his teeth, kicking out at a creature that had tried to grab at his leg. No. He would not let that happen.

Then suddenly, a clawed hand was grasping at his hair, pulling him down to the ground. He was falling backwards, the world whirling around him in slow motion as his boots lost their purchase in the mud. A misshapen creature was on top of him, pressing down on his chest, its grin too wide and its yellow eyes glittering with anticipation for the kill. He lashed out again with his sword arm, but the angle was wrong, and all it did was dodge aside, cackling. But then its face froze, the silver point of an arrow protruding from the front of its throat. It fell sideways off his chest, the clawed hands scrabbling uselessly at his face even as its hot blood spurted out onto him. He scrambled to his feet, glancing down and noticing the arrow was fletched in white. His face split into a grin as he realised who had most likely saved his life. And then she was there beside him, catching his eye and returning his grin as she fought, her curved sword flashing in the dim light. They were fighting back to back now, each defending the other. They had played games like this once, he remembered, as children in the Treelit woods of Oromë, where the enemies had been imaginary and the swords had been made of fallen sticks they had found on the forest floor. The brief flash of memory caused the fire of rage to flare up in him again, and he fought harder still, his sword dancing before his eyes to a grim internal melody.

The fighting did not last long. Though the orcs had initially appeared large in numbers, it had been a badly planned and ill-organised attack, and they were soon dissipated by the survivors of Himlad. Although, Tyelkormo saw as he and Irissë picked their way across the field of the skirmish, there were also many more of their own people dead or dying than before.

He found his brother talking to Tyelperinquar, who was dabbing at a cut on Maeglin’s cheek with a dampened rag. Maeglin was biting his lip, as though trying not to cry out. Irissë pushed past, running forward. “Lómion! Are you alright?”

“Mother!” Maeglin sighed with relief, and Tyelperinquar stepped back hastily as Irissë threw her arms around her son. “I am fine, it’s not serious.” Huan bounded towards the group and licked Maeglin’s hand cheerfully. Tyelkormo smiled, but his face darkened as an unwelcome thought occurred to him.

“Irissë…” his voice was hesitant. “You and Maeglin… you should go to Gondolin.”

The words tumbled from his mouth, before he could think better of voicing them. She stared.

“But Turukáno would not let you in, nor your people.”

He held her gaze, and took a deep breath. “I know. But you would be safe there, at least.”

Her face grew stormy. “Tyelko, do you actually think I would leave - ” but then she faltered, looking from him to Maeglin and the blood on his face, and back again. “I… perhaps…”

Tyelkormo’s heart stopped, although he knew he was the one to blame for this. This was what he had wanted only seconds before, he reminded himself. This was right. But he had not thought that she would prove this easy to convince. Then Maeglin spoke, his voice filled with quiet intensity. “Mother. Do not do this. You were trapped on my account for too long.” He raised his head, drawing himself up a little taller. “Not anymore.”

“Lómion…” her voice was pained.

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but…”

Curufinwë broke into the conversation. “I have a better idea. Let us all make for Nargothrond. Findaráto will surely give us harbour for the foreseeable future.”

Tyelkormo tried not to let the relief show on his face, although he suspected it was rather transparent, going by the smile twisting Irissë’s lips. She had placed one hand in his and the other in Maeglin’s again. “If Findaráto proves uncooperative…” she gritted her teeth.

“He will not, Irissë. Trust me.”

She hesitated momentarily, and then raised her head in assent, a tentative smile reappearing upon her face. 

“That is agreement from everyone, I assume?” Curufinwë asked wryly.

Tyelkormo gave a silent nod.

“Then we should gather the survivors, and leave with all haste. We have a long journey to make, and it is growing dark.”


End file.
